Alice's Tulips: A Novel

by Dallas, Sandra

  “What is it?” I asks. I am the recipient of so many unkindnesses now that I suspected even her.

  “Wouldn’t be a surprise if ’twas told,” she says. “You’ll know it when you see it.” A great pain came over her then, and as she was standing, she reached for the back of a chair to steady herself.

  When I offered to fetch her pills, she said they were gone. Then another pain came, one so bad, she had to sit down and put her head into her hands. The pains had got worse, and I was much concerned. “I have a need to go into town, and I shall get a supply of pills,” I tell her, but she waves her hand.

  “We haven’t the money. Besides, they aren’t much help.”

  “We will manage.”

  “You will need seed next spring,” she says. Not until later did I realize she had said “you” instead of “we.”

  “Next spring will worry about itself. Who knows, we may sell a railroad right-of-way by then,” I says, trying to be gay.

  So, although it was cold, I walked into town, as we use the horse as little as possible. He is old and not in good condition, and he must last until spring planting. Just as I got to town, who should pass me on the Egg and Butter Road but Mr. Howard, driving a handsome new buggy, Mrs. Kittie at his side. I would have snubbed them but didn’t have the chance, for they snubbed me first. It was a taste of what was to come in Slatyfork, for not a soul spoke to me. Even Louise Quayle—that married the day after her husband’s burial—would not catch my eye. Well, she should not come to me if this husband beats her.

  My only errands were to the post office (which a kind Providence had emptied of all but the postmaster) and to the doctor, who was snoring at his desk. As I wanted to rest my feet from the walk, I sat down to wait for him to awake. I might as well have waited for the Resurrection, as he sniffed and grunted and belched for twenty or ten minutes, until I got up and knocked sharply at the door.

  He was not the least bit embarrassed at having been caught napping, but stumbled to his feet and says, “Well, young Mrs. Bullock, something for your nerves?”

  “I’ve come about my mother-in-law. She is already out of your pills.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder she eats them like candy, with what’s wrong with her. Serena’s a determined woman. She won’t take a drop of liquor or opiate unless she’s drove to it. I expect she is now.” He sat down heavily in his chair and leaned back on two legs. “I expect you know what’s wrong.”

  I did not, but would not tell him so for fear he would not continue, so I reply, “Um.”

  “Nothing to be done about it.”

  “Nothing?”

  “I told her I might could operate, but I don’t never have no luck with it, and it might bring on the ending of it.”

  “A terrible thing,” I says, leaning forward. I grew impatient as he yawned, then picked at his teeth. “Is it always so bad?”

  “It differs. Don’t you know that, girl? Cancer’s different with everybody.”

  “Cancer!”

  He looked at me sharply. “I thought you said you knew all about it.”

  Well, I know how to cover up a lie pretty well. “Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I? I guess that word spoke out loud is ugly to me.”

  He shrugged. “Not to me. I’ve got interested of late in abnormalities of the body. You know that growth she’s got on her breast, the size of a walnut?” He didn’t wait for me to reply, just shook his head and says, “Why it’s nothing to what I seen myself. I took one the size of a lemon out of a woman. Course, she died, too, almost went crazy from the pain. I heard of a doctor in Keokuk found a growing thing as big as a muskmelon. I sure wished I could have laid eyes on it. The man who took it out wasn’t even a surgeon; he was a phrenologist. I guess you know that’s a person who studies bumps on the head. This one studies bumps on the bosom.” The doctor winked at me.

  I wondered if he would have been so familiar if not for the gossip about Mr. Samuel Smead, and I stood and said I would take a dollar’s worth of the pills.

  He waved me to a cupboard and told me to take a handful.

  “How long has she got?” I asks.

  “How should I know?” he replies.

  Mother Bullock was resting when I got home, so I brewed a cup of tea and carried it to her, then sat beside the bed and took her hand. “I have had a conversation with the doctor,” I says.

  “He talks entirely too much,” she says, searching my face.

  I nodded. “And you have not talked enough. You should have told me.”

  Mother Bullock looked away. “There is no reason to tell it. Nothing can be done. We have worries enough without this.” She sagged against the pillow, and I took out one of the pills and handed it to her. “You ought not to have spent the money,” she says. She swallowed the pill with a little tea, then closed her eyes and leaned back. I waited until I thought she was asleep; then I tiptoed toward the door. But she called to me and I went back to the bed. “Alice,” she says in a dreamy voice as her hand flailed about in search of mine. I reached for it and held it fast. “I got to see Charlie again. I got to live until Charlie comes home.”

  “You will,” I says. “I promise you will.” But I fear that is a promise I cannot keep.

  With a heavy heart, I close.

  Alice Bullock

  9

  Oyster Feather

  A woman’s skill in quilting came not only from the way she put together her quilt top but also from her skill in stitching the top to the batting and quilt back, forming a fabric sandwich. Tiny unform stitches, as many as a eight or ten, and in some cases twelve, to the inch, showcased a woman’s skill every bit as much as her piecework or applique. Sloppy stitches big enough to catch a toe were known as “toenail” stitches. Sometimes women followed the design on the quilt top when they quilted. Or they traced around teacups or bowls or leaves, or they cut out patterns from tin. They quilted in intersecting straight lines or undulating patterns—row on row of quilted lines forming waves, circles, and half-circles. Quilting patterns had names, too—Wineglass, Cable, Clamshell, and, one of the oldest, Ostrich Feather, also known as Oyster Feather.

  October 28, 1864

  Dear Lizzie,

  Mother Bullock is not one for church. Charlie told me she attended a camp meeting when young and was so overcome with religious fever that she spoke in tongues, sounding like a chicken. Oh, I would like to have heard that. When she came to her senses, she was undone and always a little afraid of being possessed again, so avoided church when possible. Since that day, she has rarely stepped foot inside one, except for Christmas, buryings, and special occasions, such as when Charlie left for the war. I don’t care so much about being preached at, either, so I am just as glad we keep the Sabbath by ourselves. Now, Lizzie, I know you have joined the Campbellites, and that is fine for you, but it is not for me, so don’t scold.

  It was a surprise on Sunday last, then, when Mother Bullock asked me to accompany her to the church at Slatyfork. I was so surprised that I blurt out, “Are you making your peace with the Lord?”

  “I never was on the outs with Him.”

  Just with everyone else, I thought, but kept that to myself. I harnessed the horse to the buggy, and Mother Bullock, Joybell, and Piecake climbed in. Annie and I walked to town beside the old horse, as he was put-upon to carry even Mother Bullock and the little ones.

  The congregation at the little white church, which is badly in need of a new coat of paint, was surprised indeed to see us. I think the preacher believed Mother Bullock to be a lost sinner returning to the fold, although she is no more lost than General Grant was at Vicksburg. He rushed over to her and greeted her warmly, as did others—Annie less so, and me not at all. Mrs. Kittie yoo-hooed Mother Bullock and hurried to her, with Mr. Howard trailing behind, announcing that Mother Bullock would have the pleasure of hearing their banns posted that very day. They are to be married in two weeks.

  “I never heard of anybody posting banns in Slatyfork,” Mother Bullock says.
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  “Mr. Howard is from New England,” Mrs. Kittie replies. “It is the custom there.”

  “Dear lady, you are surely welcome,” Mr. Howard says to Mother Bullock, making it clear the others in our party were not. “After the ceremony, I have planned a strawberry supper in celebration.”

  “In November? I should like to see that, for I don’t know where you’ll get strawberries in November,” she says. “I’ll ask Alice if we are taken up.”

  “I would not think the other Mrs. Bullock would care to come,” Mr. Howard says quickly.

  “And why is that?” Mother Bullock asks him. I was pleased she was standing up for me, then realized it was not me but Charlie’s wife she defended.

  Mr. Howard looked surprised and held his tongue. Then Mrs. Kittie says, “Oh, I don’t mind. I ain’t one to hold a grudge.”

  “What grudge have you got against me?” I asks.

  But Mother Bullock says, “Come along, Alice,” so I turned my back on Mrs. Kittie and started up the church steps.

  We were about to go inside, when I heard my name called and turned, to see Nealie, who had driven up by herself in her buggy. “Oh, dear Alice. Your face cheers me,” she says in a loud voice as Mrs. Kittie and Mr. Howard exchanged glances with the other worshipers. “I have got a proposition for you.” In her state, she found getting down from her buggy was an exertion, and she paused to calm herself. Everyone else paused, too, for gossip draws more interest than the Good Word, and a church is worse than a post office for minding other people’s business. Mrs. Kittie took a step toward us, blocking Mr. Howard, who stretched his long neck around her, thrusting out an Adam’s apple the size of a peach. Nealie paid no attention to them, and when she had caught her breath, she says, “Alice, I know it is asking a good deal, but I would like to stay with you until my baby is born. Frank is away from home so much now and worries that my time will come when there is no one to help but the hired man. Frank says you are the most sensible woman in Slatyfork and told me to beg you to stay with me. I replied you would not leave your responsibilities, but perhaps you will let me come to Bramble Farm.”

  Oh cow! Lizzie, you should have seen the faces! I do not know whether Nealie wants to come to Bramble farm at all or whether she made up the plan that instant as a kindness. Of course, it was her way of telling everyone she believed me innocent of any part in Mr. Samuel Smead’s death.

  But others did not believe it. “Jehoshaphat!” say one man. “You’d trust yourself to the woman that done your kin?”

  “Oh, she’ll likely be in the jailhouse by the time of the lying-in,” a woman told him. “Or maybe hanged. I’d like to see that.”

  I shuddered at such hatred, but Nealie ignored the remarks. “If you say no, Alice, I understand. But I would feel so safe in your care and would help all I could, and, of course, I would expect to pay something for it.”

  “Why, you can stay with me and Mr. Howard,” Mrs. Kittie interrupts. “My house has ever so many more conveniences than a log cabin.”

  Nealie turned and looked at her curiously, then responds coldly, “I would not do that for all the tea in China.”

  “Now, sis—” Mrs. Kittie begins, her face red.

  But Nealie interrupted her. “I mean, I could not impose on a newly married couple, could I, for I have heard of your plans.”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Kittie says.

  “Me and Mother Bullock will have to talk it over,” I tell Nealie. “The house is small, and I wonder if you would be comfortable.”

  “No,” Mother Bullock says. “The house is plenty big enough. You can come, and right welcome you will be.” She gave Nealie a brief smile, then adds, “The Lord knows these are hard times for us. We had expected to be better off, for a certain person promised to pay us seven dollars a month for the rent of Jennie Kate Stout’s house, but we have not seen it—not a penny. I am proud to say the Bullocks have always met their obligations.”

  Of course, everyone knew who Mother Bullock was talking about and turned to stare at Mrs. Kittie, who flushed and fanned herself, although it was not warm. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. Besides, Mr. Howard will be moving out soon enough and won’t have a need for the house.”

  “The Bullocks are always after money. You don’t meet your obligations like you say, old lady,” Mr. Huff, the merchant says. “I myself hold enough notes to claim Bramble Farm, though who’d want it? Women don’t know nothing about farming. Them two ruinated it after Charlie left.”

  Mother Bullock had never said anything to me about owing money, and I turned to her as she gave her explanation. “You are wide of the facts. Those were old debts from Mr. Bullock. Jo paid them long ago.”

  “I don’t recollect such. Maybe you got the proof somewheres. It wouldn’t bother me none to turn you out, miss, but I won’t dun the mother of a captured soldier.”

  “You would if you had the proof, for you are a hard potato to peel.”

  Mother Bullock’s gray face turned ashen at such cruelty, and I was filled with rage. But I kept my voice steady when I respond, “You have no cause to bully a sick woman. Turn your hatred on me, if you must, but leave her alone.”

  “She’s right,” a voice says, and for a moment I was filled with relief. Then I saw it was Sheriff Couch who had spoken up, and he adds, “My curiosity is pretty much satisfied about the matter of Sam Smead.”

  There was much murmuring and a voice says, “Amen.” But before the sheriff could say more, the church bell rang, and with me on one side, Annie on the other, and Nealie behind, Mother Bullock walked into the church, followed by the rest of the worshipers.

  The pastor gave a powerful talk on “Thou shalt not kill,” and many nodded and looked at me. Nothing was preached about forgiveness or false charges. Then announcement was made of Mrs. Kittie’s coming marriage, which caused some twittering, for we are not the only ones who think she has been flummoxed by Mr. Howard. With her foolishness to dwell on, the congregation forgot about me for a moment.

  “Will you come for a second service next Sunday?” the preacher asks as we passed by him in the churchyard.

  “Not likely,” Mother Bullock replies. So I do not know why we came for the first service.

  We had barely reached Bramble Farm when Sheriff Couch rode up behind us. He has called repeatedly, asking questions about Mr. Samuel Smead, in an attempt to trip me up.

  “It was said at church you are good with an ax,” he says.

  “Of course, she is,” Mother Bullock replies for me. “Do you think she could grow up on a farm and not know how to handle one? I myself could always swing an ax as good as Charlie, better, for I always chopped the firewood.”

  He eyed her. “Is this in way of confession?”

  “If knowing how to use an ax makes makes me a killer, I’m the guilty one for sure.” Mother Bullock snorts. “I’ve seen you use one, too, Josiah. Had you a grudge against Mr. Smead?” He looked startled, but Mother Bullock laughed. “I expect you will have a harder time finding someone who didn’t have reason to be rid of that man.”

  “I expect I would.” He laughed, too, but his eyes didn’t. They were bright and hard, and he slid them over to me. “But I’d be hard-pressed to find someone who hated him more than Miss Alice here.”

  “I had thought better of you, Josiah. Others at Slatyfork, most especially the women, are jealous of Charlie’s wife because she’s young and pretty, and I fancy more than one wanted Charlie for herself. Alice is from outside, and there are some mothers here who felt Charlie had no business going elsewhere for a wife. Lord knows, Alice has her ways, and I don’t like them much. She’s vain and wasteful, and too caught up in fashion. She is prideful of her sewing. But that’s not call to turn such meanness on her. People here are that bad to her, I can’t tell you about it all. Maybe it is the war that has got us all down. The Rebs are far away. We don’t know them. Alice gives a face to hate. And to think she suffers for the likes of Samuel Smead. Their hatred is worthy of a better ca
use.” Her eyes bored into the sheriff’s, and he was uncomfortable, but he didn’t look away. “The soreheads have stirred up trouble, that’s all.”

  Without looking at me, she turned and went inside. I started to follow, but the sheriff grabbed my arm and held me back. “Might be those mothers of daughters will have their chance with Charlie again,” he hissed. “Might be Charlie would come home a widower. I expect we’ll know soon enough.” They he stomped away, leaving me shivering.

  I beg pardon for burdening you with my troubles, Lizzie. I will speak of them no more for now.

  You have asked my opinion of your boarder. I do not know him—but, of course, not knowing about a thing has never stopped me from having an opinion. It is this: You ought to go to church with a woman friend instead of with him. Now that James is working and has taken the pledge, you must do your best to show your faith in him. It harms your reputation being seen about Galena with another man, and it makes no difference that the two of you are friends, with no word of impropriety ever having passed between you. Am I not an example of what trouble is stirred up by gossip? What matters is appearance. Oh, dear, did I just write that? I think I am turning into Mama. I know I am not my brothers’ keeper, but I think I may be my sister’s.

  We have not heard from Charlie but have got another letter from Harve, who writes every week, and I write him, too. Even without the quarter-dollar he sent in the last post, we were glad to hear from him, because he writes such clever things. The Secesh are desperate for artillery and sometimes paint logs to look like cannons, he says. During a lull in a battle, one of the Wolverines threw a piece of hardtack to the enemy with a note attached: “Here’s ammunition for your wooden cannon.” In a few minutes, back flew the hardtack with a note from a cracker: “Wrong kind. Got any sticks?”

  Harve wrote us another story about some Wolverines taking refuge in a house owned by two spinsters, who hid in their bedrooms, the doors locked and bolted. The whole house was enfiladed by enemy fire; then a shell exploded, blowing apart the attic. When the fighting had quieted, one old maid opened her door and called to the other, “Oh, sister, are you killed?”